


Winter Roses

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aspects of Canon, Braime - Freeform, Brienne is the Best, But not the trashy aspects, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, For multiple couples, Gen, Jaime Lannister is alive, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sansa deserves to be happy, Smut, So do Podrick and Jaime and Brienne, podsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19707991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Love is patient. Love is kind. All things that Sansa Stark has scarcely seen since she headed South for the first time.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oof. I wrote a Podsa fic because honestly I love them. But its also a Braime fic because that's what I call self care. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa greeted her at breakfast, gesturing for Brienne to take the seat across from her. It was odd Brienne thought, since typically she sat in the seat next to the Queen of the North and Lady Arya sat here – Jaime had commented the day before that he believed it was easier for the pair of them argue that way. She slid into place and realized rather quickly that Lady Arya was not coming, and that it seemed from the non-arrival of the rest of their party, that it would be the two of them and the two of them alone at breakfast.

“Your Grace,” Brienne returned, tossing a handful of nuts into her porridge, reaching for the pitcher of milk and sweet syrup. “It seems we are alone this morning.”

When Brienne had left her chambers, Jaime had still been sleeping. He had been sleeping since just after dinner the night before after working all day to help put in the wooden fortifications to prop up the far side of the wall. Between the work and sweating, he had had been starving, dirty, and exhausted. After a quick dinner and quicker bath, he had fallen asleep before Brienne had finished her stew.

Ser Podrick was in the training yard with many of the Queens younger charges who had come to Winterfell to join the new Knights training program. She had been doing the work of a Master-At-Arms while Sansa searched for a suitable one, and it was said even now that a knight who had been sworn to Lady Lysa Arryn rode North as they sat, set to arrive in time for Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick to make their official departure for Tarth.

“Arya had left with Lord Gendry to travel to the Stormlands.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows at the news.

“He has promised her ships and sailors for her journey.”

“In exchange for her hand in marriage?”

“In exchange for nothing,” Sansa said, and smiled in way that seemed almost sad to Brienne, “He loves her.”

“Then it makes sense he would want to keep her safe.”

Sansa nodded, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. She looked so much like Lady Catelyn that Brienne felt her heart soften a bit, realizing again how young that Sansa truly was, though she could pass for far older and wiser than most Brienne had met. “How is Ser Jaime?” She asked finally, turning her attention away from where her mind had wondered back to Brienne.

Brienne felt her face flush. It was no secret that the pair of them were romantically involved and had been for months now. A raven had come from her father, accepting of Jaime’s marriage request, and she had shared that with Lady Sansa. Still, though, the thought that everyone knew what happened in their badchamber (and well beyond it) made Brienne hesitate. “He is well, your Grace.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head and Brienne was both confused and concerned, “I mean…how are the two of you, I suppose.”

Brienne felt her defensive instinct rise in her stomach, that Sansa was doubting that she and Jaime were truly together, that he loved her as he said that he did. She swallowed that down as Sansa averted her eyes, nervous. She had been a girl only recently, a girl raised far from her mother in the grasp of a woman and a kingdom that forced her into unimaginable horrors. And here was Brienne, perhaps the only person who had not yet betrayed her in some way, one of the only ones in which she felt safe to ask questions.

“My apologies, Ser Brienne…I do not mean to intrude, I was only wondering what it might be like.” Her face flushed, a mirror of Brienne’s own, perhaps realizing how that had sounded. “Love, I mean.”

Sansa looked at her now, to an outsider the same composed Queen she presented herself as each day. To Brienne, however, she could see the longing behind her expression. For softness, perhaps, or for a confirmation that the truth she always taken the songs of maidens and knights and flowers and courtly love as.

Brienne considered how to respond. Her current love story had been a far cry from the stories of virtuous maidenhood and flowers and wedding beds made of spun gold that she had been told throughout her childhood. It was composed of moments along a single thread, knotted in places where fate had seen fit to intersect her and Jaime. It was Lady Catelyn, it was the baths at Harrenhaal, the Bear Pit, Oathkeeper, Riverrun, the Dragonpit. It was the battlements of Winterfell surrounded by the dead as much as it was her chambers there. It was the Godswood where he had come back to her and the training yard where he had kissed her for the first time where others could see. It was her father’s raven, his missing hand.

Love was not pretty or golden or shining, rarely in her experience had it been soft or warm. But that made her think of their nights that were those things. When Jaime’s touch was so gentle that she thought they might both shatter like glass. His tears when Cersei had died, his lips against hers when the news came that the war was won. The way he held her in the mornings, or did his best to wash her hair in the bath. The winter rose he had lain on her pillow or the bowl of berries and sweet syrup he had left for her on the table near the night stand when she had taken to bed.

She thought of the feeling of him inside of her, his weight on pressing her into their bed, his damp hair pressed into her shoulder. She thought of want.

“It’s wonderful, Your Grace,” She finally said, “With the right sort of person. Patient and kind.”

Despite it all, including the tear that glittered in one of her eyes, Sansa smiled.

Brienne watched the Queen carefully over the next few days. Their breakfasts included the return of Podrick and Jaime and occasionally various heads of the household that Sansa would invite to join them, but Sansa did not speak of their conversation so neither did Brienne. It was however, as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She seemed lighter, spoke lighter, and carried herself with an air of almost renewal.

Brienne doubted that there conversation was the only reason for this, but it did seem to be oddly related. She had considered speaking to Jaime about it, but was fully aware that the only reason Jaime had been permitted so close to the Queen to begin with was Sansa’s love for Brienne. Her actions towards him were no longer callous perhaps, but they were not dripping with affection either. So, she had kept Sansa’s secret close to her own chest, not hinting at anything to Jaime, though it did seem to her that he was becoming increasingly suspicious of her general aloofness.

This morning, however, Brienne had not seen Sansa since breakfast. She had been busy going over expense accounts as they restocked the Winterfell armory, and Sansa seemed to have been out of the castle most of the morning. Podrick was debating going outside herself, the early afternoon snows light enough that they could be kept out with only a few layers. But instead, glancing down into the training yard where a group of well-padded teens were fighting with tourney sword, she caught sigh of a flash of red.

Overseeing the practice was one Ser Podrick Payne who stood with his new, leather-plated armor and hands on his hips. One rested on the pommel of the sword that Brienne had gifted him when she had knighted him, a starburst on the pommel since Podrick had insisted that she not use his house crest for any of his adornments. After only a couple hours deliberation, she had decided to use her own and she had never seen a happier man than Podrick who slid the sword into its scabbard and pulled her into an embrace only moments after.

But Podrick was not alone. The flash of red that Brienne had seen was not her former squire, but the clashing red of Queen Sansa’s hair as it spilled down her front from underneath the thick grey fur of her hood. She was angled towards Podrick, and as Brienne watched, she started to laugh freely at something he was saying to her. Podrick himself shook with laughter, the cloak around his shoulders shaking a bit and continued until one of the heavily padded children fell over and rolled in the snow and Podrick raced to him.

Brienne; however, watched Sansa, who lifted a hand to her mouth as Podrick lifted the child from the snow where they had been flailing around like a upturned turtle. He knelt down in front of them, helping them brush off the snow, and whispered what Brienne were certain were words of encouragement to them. These children were young, truly children, and Brienne was hit with a pang of regret that she had never been gentler with Podrick though he had certainly been much older than this lot. When he walked back to the Queen, having situated the child back on their feet and ready for another go, Brienne watched as Sansa placed her hand on Podrick’s arm, watching the little child with an almost rapturous expression and a soft smile.

Brienne considered herself far from an expert on most matters of the heart, but she did think that it might be best if she not go outside right at that moment and instead gave them a bit of space. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So some wholesome content as well as some smut this chapter. Not for our lovely Podsa, but fear not, we'll get there eventually :) 
> 
> AS always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think!

Brienne slowed her steps to the Godswood, rubbing her hands tighter over the smooth inside of the wreath she had made. The bark had peeled off as easy as parchment, leaving only a few dark marks on her knuckles and hands, and the small wreath she had fashioned would last a long time for the still-green wood it was fashioned from. She felt strange making the wreaths. She had been named, as all Southron ladies, in the light of the Seven. She had oft repeated prayers to herself as a child, changing the names of the Gods as if that might suddenly turn her into a man or a proper maiden and allow her to make sense of her peculiarities as others saw them. But she was far from a child, in years and experience, and as far as she could say, few of those prayers had event amounted to anything.

These wreaths were the form of prayer that she gave now. Silent, and here in the frozen Godswood where the light of the Seven has perhaps never even penetrated. She laid them at the base of the Weirwood tree with its bleeding eyes and the stream that ran no matter how cold the air around them grew. They reminded her of Lady Catelyn who had worked tirelessly on wreaths of her own to protect her son. The wreaths were of the Mother, though Brienne had altered hers from the designs that Lady Stark had given.

There were no seven figures, only wood and stems, bound together so tightly that no amount of pulling could undo them and only a sharp knife could split the fibers. They were small, not the heavy woven things that Lady Catelyn had done and hung around her, but then again, Brienne did not suppose that she had any right to make a symbol of the Mother. She had not, until recently, known who she was laying the wreaths out for.

Her first thought had been that they were indeed for Lady Catelyn who seemed so long lost that Brienne had realized one day that she could not remember what her voice had sounded like, the sound erased by the thousands of screams and shouts and sobs of war that had followed. To say it was for Lady Catelyn, however, felt incomplete. If it was for her, then by logic it was not for King Renly or Lyanna Mormont or Sandor Clegane or Shireen Baratheon or Rickon Stark or Melisandre or Beric Dondarrion or the Knights of the Vale that she had led to fight against the dead. People who deserved far more than to be a forgotten casualty of a war that did not ever have to happen. People who’s mothers perhaps already wove them wreaths, but more likely people whose names and deeds and futures had been paid to the long night.

And so she made one for them and brought a new one each time the old was covered in snow or the water had soaked through the wood. She thought that she ought to mention it to Sansa, she and Jaime and Podrick would be leaving soon and she had not decided whether or not it was something she thought ought to linger after her.

Today, however, she slowed her steps and stopped for the sake of the voices she heard ahead of her. For a moment, she had the absurd thought that it was Bran Stark, returned from a short venture as King of the Six Kingdoms after deciding he’d rather be here. She had seen him often after the Dragon Queen had left. More still after Jaime had. And he had left her there one evening as the night came closer so that Jaime could return to her in private, nearly dead and kinslaying added to his list of what he considered unforgiveable crimes.

But it was not Bran that she saw now.

“People here still mourn my father,” Ahead of her was Queen Sansa with her hood back, red hair spilling over her back. “Even those who never knew him mourn him.”

“He was a great man, your Grace.”

Brienne realized that she was only mildly surprised to realize that the person who accompanied Sansa was Podrick, dressed in his full adornments though he did not have his sword at his hip. He seemed softer this way, though Brienne had to suppress an urge to insist that he always be armed. They stood together in front of the Weirdwood in the center where Brienne could just see a pile of navy blue winter roses ringed around the base, frosted with the ice of morning.

“He was,” Sansa agreed, “And I miss him.”

“But?”

She turned to him as if startled. Brienne waited on Sansa to see her, to save face by stepping forward as if she had only just arrived. But the Queen of the North did nothing but speak to the man beside her. “What do you mean, Ser Podrick?”

Brienne held her breath, realizing that she should have left by now, but even as he turned slightly, Podrick did not see her.

“It only seemed as though you had more to say, your Grace.”

“You may call me Sansa.”

There was a moment of silence, the stream rushing past them the only sound. “I did not wish to upset you, Sansa.” He said softly.

“You haven’t,” She said and Brienne watched her wrap her fingers around Podrick’s wrist, perhaps touching his hand. “You are too perceptive, Ser Podrick.”

“Podrick.”

“Podrick,” She agreed, “I was only going to say that it is only my father that seems remembered now.”

Podrick said nothing, and Brienne felt the color rush to her face. She was gripping her wreath too tightly now, and wanted to turn and leave. Leave them to have this moment, but she was frozen.

“I feel as though I’m the only one who thinks of Rickon at times. Or my mother. Or even Robb.” She says and Brienne can feel the tears. “They have forgotten them so quickly.”

“I am happy to remember them with you, Your Grace.”

“You never knew them.” She said, almost accusingly.

“No,” He agreed, and stepped forward to take a rose from the ground. “But I know you. And they are part of you.” He lifted the rose upwards as if to examine it closely. “And I wish to know everything about you, Sansa.” He said, his words having a hint of a stumble that they used to when he was a 

Brienne finally felt movement come back to her, and she turned quickly, face burning, and pushed back towards the castle.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Brienne closed her eyes for a moment, her irritation rising in her head. She should have known that as soon as she returned to the castle that Jaime would notice something was wrong. He was annoyingly insightful in some aspects and annoyingly oblivious in others, though her general mood tended to be the former. She sat by the fire in her room, going over the small pile of raven scrolls that had arrived for her throughout the day: Receipts, a status update from House Glover on how many of the castle stewards would join the fighting program they were implementing, a confirmation from Kings Landing that the trade of steel would not be taxed for the time being. All things she did not want to think about.

Jaime lay stretched out on there bed, wearing his loose-fitting bedclothes, shift half-undone. He did not appear to be doing anything other than watching her, which she had determined might be his favorite pastime. His face; however, was dark with genuine worry, and the irritation that was bubbling up at him softened. He did not accept still that she had taken him back fully. She had doubts he would ever feel as though he had earned a place here at her side, never realizing that he had never had to earn her love or affection. Perhaps when they were on Tarth, married and away from so many of the ghosts that haunted Winterfell, he would believe her then.

“I’m fine, Jaime,” She said, doing her best to sound soothing. Her voice betrayed her, and his lips became pressed into a thin line.

“IF you don’t wish to speak to me about it, perhaps you could talk to Sansa…”

“No!” Brienne said, sounding far harsher than she had meant to. Jaime’s face reddened a bit, and he looked away, staying silent for so long that Brienne knew now he was simply worried about upsetting her. She sighed, rolling up the parchment and instead went over to the bed. It seemed this was not a burden she could share on her own.

“I’m not angry with you, Jaime,” She reached for his hand which he did not pull away. He did look down at her fingers, intwined with his. “And I’m sorry that it seemed that way. I am confused is all.”

“About what?” His voice was soft, as quiet as a whisper with none of harshness.

“Podrick and Sansa.”

It was enough to make him look up at her, his confusion plain. “Are they both ill?”

She had to smile at that, and he simply raised his eyebrows a bit more. It brought out the new wrinkle across his forehead that she was tempted to reach up and trace with a finger. This war had worn him down. She had noticed after she had taken him to King’s Landing the grey that was starting to appear at his temples, likely a result of his time imprisoned in Robb Stark’s camp. It had gotten flecks of gray throughout it, the same as the beard he had grown out. But he was handsome still. So handsome, in fact, that at times she scarcely believe he was real. He seemed far more the idealized version of a person that she would form in her mind, that he had truly left and not returned, that perhaps his sister lived and he lived on in her arms. But then his eyes would shadow with pain or worry or even joy and she knew him to be real.

“I believe they are beginning to fall in love, actually.”

Whatever Jaime had been expecting, it had not been that. He didn’t react at first, perhaps because he couldn’t. And then, when he could he just stared at her, his lips twisting oddly. She realized that he was holding in a lugh.

“I’m not joking!” She said, and he shrugged innocently, “I’m not!” She insisted, but both of them broke into a smile. “I saw them practically kissing in the Godswood.”

“That’s a holy place, Ser Brienne,” He said gravely, “Surely Ser Podrick wouldn’t forsake such a sacred place.” Brienne could not contain her laughter now, scarcely believing that she hadn’t told Jaime now for so long. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder.

“If they are in love,” He said slowly, “And I still have my doubts, mind you,” He winked down at her when she turned her head, “Will he go with us to Tarth?”

Brienne had that same question in her own mind. Podrick was loyal to a fault, and she had no doubt that if she asked him to come, even knowing what she knew, that he would do so. She could not ask that of him. She knew that pain, a fleeting reminder that had her gripping Jaime tighter to her.

“I don’t know,” She answered honestly. “At least for the wedding.”

“Two months,” Jaime said softly as if he could scarcely believe it. “Two months until we can finally share a bed, my love.”

She looked up at him, at his ridiculous grin at his own joke and rolled her eyes but couldn’t’ help her own smile. She reached up her free hand to his face, thumbing over a small scar softly before leaning in to press a kiss to his lips.

She had, perhaps, been trying to initiate anything, but it seemed that Jaime had other ideas. He shifted in the bed, pressing against her, coaxing her lips open. He had become an expert at undoing the laces of her sleepshirt with only one hand, and had it done so quickly that Brienne could scarcely catch her breath.

“Is this all right?” He asked, pausing for a moment. He didn’t like for them to be intimate if Brienne was upset, if anything was amiss.

“Yes,” She said promptly, reaching over to undo his shirt as well, which he discarded quickly. He moved faster than she was used to, pulling her clothes off with practiced ease and fevered kisses over her neck and chest, his beard leaving a small path over her smooth skin. She kicked off her pants and smallclothes as his tongue trailed across her breast, her hand twisting in his short hair.

“You seem eager,” She said, nearly startled by how breathy her voice was as his hand skirted over her hip and brushed the apex of her thighs.

“Ser Podrick can’t be the only person having a good night,” He retorted, grinning up at as he kissed down her stomach, his weight settling between her legs as he moved over her

“Jaime!” She said, meaning it as an exasperated remark, but having it come out as more of a gasp as he nibbled lightly on her inner thigh, lowering himself down to her body. She let herself think for a moment, only a moment, that perhaps Podrick and Sansa were this _involved_ but those thoughts, along with most others, were gone only moments later as his mouth closed over her.


End file.
